


Dance Real Close

by Maleyah (Katherine_Kat)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Castiel/Dean Winchester Flirting, Christmas, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mal wrote a thing, Rivals to Lovers, Snowglobe story, Soft Boys, Spies & Secret Agents, Winter, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28014339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katherine_Kat/pseuds/Maleyah
Summary: For the umpteenth time tonight, Castiel swallows and clenches his teeth, hard enough that he might just need a dentist appointment once this horrendous evening comes to its inevitable end and he has what he came for. Good thing the company has excellent health care. He forces his gaze into a faux-thousand yard stare, a wilful attempt to get lost among the many twinkling lights and ornaments. Just off of the shoulder of the man who is his current, last and most annoying obstacle.Dean Winchester.Dressed to the nines in a suit of snowflake white, he fits in at this high-end Yule Ball as if he hasn’t done anything else in his life.Top of his class and generation, ten years Castiel’s junior, much too skilled for his own good at nigh anything from close combat to subterfuge to extraction, his competition, who is, for some unfathomable reason, flirting with Castiel on the mission.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie/Dorothy (implied background)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 173
Collections: Promptus Exchangarama, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Why Did You Come Here Tonight?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kitmistry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitmistry/gifts).



> Written for the Writers of Destiel server's Winter Exchange. 
> 
> Prompt by Kitmistry: "Cas and Dean are both spies/hired killers. They work for different agencies but they were contracted to take care of the same target. Neither realises it until they come face to face at the christmas ball their target is attending. Bonus points for Dean being a shameless flirt and Cas pretending not to care"
> 
> Kitmistry, hope this fills the prompt adequately! Not sure what time it is for you, so this might be a very early Christmas present! Much love 💛
> 
> I had a surprising amount of fun, writing these two ^^ and our Queen of Moons.
> 
> Title is the song of the same name, provided by Tanstaafl. Thank you, fren, as always, for your enthusiasm! 💛
> 
> Leave a little something for the muse, if you feel like it! Merry Christmas and Blessed Yule!  
> Mal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Dean is a distracting nuisance. Charming. Talkative. Clever. Much more engaging than Castiel expected (or perhaps they haven't had much chance until now and he's been missing out), but he is - still - a - nuisance.

For the umpteenth time tonight, Castiel swallows and clenches his teeth, hard enough that he might just need a dentist appointment once this horrendous evening comes to its inevitable end and he has what he came for. Good thing the company has excellent health care. He forces his gaze into a faux-thousand yard stare, a wilful attempt to get lost among the many twinkling lights and ornaments. Just off of the shoulder of the man who is his current, last and most _annoying_ obstacle.

Dean Winchester.

Dressed to the nines in a suit of snowflake white, he fits in at this high-end Yule Ball as if he hasn’t done anything else in his life.

Top of his class and generation, ten years Castiel’s junior, much too skilled for his own good at nigh anything from close combat to subterfuge to extraction, his competition, who is, for some unfathomable reason, _flirting_ with Castiel on the mission.

The notably delicate intel retrieval mission they’re racing each other on. The mission Dean _wasn’t_ supposed to be on.

Why Dean’s focus is on said flirting instead of their mutual target is unclear. Probably because the boy thinks he’s got this one in the bag and, damn him to hell, he might if he were up against anyone except Castiel. Perhaps that is why Dean has been bothering him the second they caught sight of each other, as competing agents in the field are wont to do.

Dean is a smooth talker, if not a very subtle one, Castiel muses. Odd, since he knows the man’s played a honeypot role more than once to perfection. His pleasant, if somewhat teasing demeanour draws Castiel’s gaze back to those bright, green eyes and that tanned, freckled skin so easily, while his mind ought to be on the task at hand. Multitasking being his second nature, Castiel still recognizes a distracting nuisance when he’s around one.

And Dean is a distracting nuisance. Charming. Talkative. Clever. Much more engaging than Castiel expected (or perhaps they haven't had much chance until now and he's been missing out), but he is - _still_ \- a - nuisance.

“Do you know how to waltz?”

Castiel senses the doubt behind the words, wondering why Dean would even bother to lure him out on something so trivial. Blending in comes with the territory and at this particular, opulent ball, people are more likely to eyeball him for being a wallflower than for dancing with Dean. So...

“Of course,” he says, straightening his sleeves out by the cuffs. He extends his hand to Dean. “I’ll take the lead.”

Dean’s lips twitch while he tries to hold back the smile that provokes. Instead he works his mouth and tongue, until the dimples of amusement recede and he bows his head. Slightly. Just the right side of not enough to be bratty and polite enough to pass. “By all means.”

He takes the lead, alright. Perhaps with some more force than strictly necessary, but how the light plays in Dean’s eyes is too pretty not to appreciate as he surrenders to Castiel with smooth grace. Despite being taller than Castiel - though not by much - his brain wants to refer to him as ‘the boy’.

Castiel pulls them together without hesitation, Dean moving along fluidly. His beauty up close is out of this world. This must be the first time they’re in this kind of proximity without being in a fight.

He likes having his hand at Dean’s lower back. His fingers find the subtle dip and he pulls him even closer, just enough to merit an indulgent rise in those eyebrows. He notices a faint remainder of a wound he caused. He likes the warmth of Dean, chest to thighs, and how they’re almost nose to nose.

Despite all this, they’re both scanning their surroundings. On the job.

Peculiar to be at odds and in sync with Dean in the very same heartbeat, while they glide across the gleaming floor. His thoughts skip to dreams - daydreams - pipedreams of something fragile and out of reach. Concepts that are likely not to ping on Dean’s radar any time soon, but have been doing so - most unfortunately - on Castiel’s. And why do they come to him in this unbidden moment?

“You alright there, Cas?” Dean asks, strangely gentle.

He ducks his head to catch Castiel’s gaze, coming dangerously close. Not physically. In the intimacy of the gesture of reading him and having the gall to ask. Lights dance in Dean’s eyes and Castiel isn’t sure if he sees amusement there or the stars above.

“Fine.” It comes out even more clipped than usual.

“If you say so,” Dean says on a casual shrug.

Castiel twirls him on his axis, their fingers hooked together strong, but delicate. As if he won’t let go, even if Castiel shakes him off. They step closer when the song comes to an end, Dean’s cheeks beautifully flushed. It makes his freckles stand out and Castiel wanders between them, finding constellations.

A twinkle sparking off him, Dean winks. “Want to get our picture taken? It’ll last you longer.”

Castiel shakes his head, much too indulgent of Dean’s behaviour. “We might as well,” he says, rationalizing. “Everyone else is.”

“Awesome,” Dean smiles, his American accent slipping in.

Careless. He makes a warning tsk sound, which he's unsure Dean catches, while he trails after him, appreciating the view.

They get in line at the picture booth. It’s an elegant, wintery background, complete with icicles and a white and gold-decorated pine tree. There is a box of props people can wear or hold, should they be so inclined. One of many confusing things about civilians. They watch couples embrace and kiss. Some fondly, others with barely a hint of shame. A few groups of friends take their sweet time, making sure everyone’s in the frame and doing silly poses.

“I’m not sure those antlers are supposed to go there,” Castiel comments at some point.

“No, I don’t think so either,” Dean hums. “I wasn’t planning on wearing them. Were you?”

“What? No! I don’t plan on wearing any of that.” He hesitates and eyes Dean. "Are you?"

“Those wings would look cute on you.” 

Castiel huffs dismissively, eyeing the colourful feathers. “I doubt it.”

Eager, Dean leans against him, straining to see more, warm breath at his ear. “I’ve always wanted to try on one of those santa outfits the elves are wearing, but I doubt they’ll let me change out here in the open.”

His brain shortcircuits and he’s staring at said elves. Men and women, dressed in tasteful, but revealing versions of elf and Santa outfits alike. And by revealing, he doesn’t mean they reveal skin. They reveal possibilities.

And so did Dean.

The idea that Dean would be on display like that lights up certain parts of his brain, which usually lie dormant during missions.

Castiel’s not sure what his face does when the picture is snapped. All he knows is he’s got his arms around Dean from behind, because Dean pulls them there and he wants to keep him bracketed. Their cheeks press together as Castiel leans over his shoulder, a hint of possessiveness to his gestures, while Dean plays with his tie.

“Aww, you two are adorable. And killing it!” the photographer smiles, handing them the polaroids to wave until they're dry.

“Isn’t he just?” Dean says sweetly, putting a hand to Castiel’s jawline. He hovers it down to his neck, leaving hot trails in its wake.

Working his tongue in his mouth, he cocks a gentle eyebrow at Dean. More flustering.

He _really_ has to get rid of the boy, but his instructions are to go about this diplomatically-more-sensitive-than-usual case with great consideration and care. No killing, no explosions, no dramatics. Fair request, since all of that and worse happened last time he and Dean were in each other’s crosshairs. They’ve encountered one another more often in the past year, which considering how good Dean is shouldn’t surprise him, but there’s something in their undercurrent that sends the world just that little bit off kilter. By now he lost count of how often that has happened. It just is.

He idly wonders if Dean received similar instructions and if this _behaviour_ is part of a tactic.

Maybe he can tie him up and leave him somewhere in a closet?

Or his bedroom.

Hold up, Novak.

The thought is as abrupt as it is pleasing, which he is sure Dean is to blame for entirely. Other daydreams. Bemused, Castiel tilts his head and studies Dean in a different light. The corner of his mouth ticks up against his own volition at the image that paints. Dean smiles, everything about him seemingly brightening at having Castiel’s attention, and, oh, if only he knew. The private, smug feeling is short-lived, when Dean flashes his teeth in a wicked smile and presses the tip of his tongue to them, leaning in.

“Am I confusing your sexuality yet or should I strut over to the bar and back again?” he whispers. “Manhattan’s your favorite, right?”

His hand lands at Dean’s hip involuntarily. Skin prickling all over his body, Castiel snorts before he can stop himself. Their profession entails having intimate and private information about everyone they meet, though why his preferred cocktail belongs in that folder is strange. 

Everything about Dean’s behaviour is strange. “Not in this abysmal city.”

“Ahh, a _truthful_ response at last,” Dean smiles. “What’ll be your poison? As in booze, sunshine, don’t look at me as if I might poison you. That's one of your tricks. I know all of them.”

Unsure whether he wants to prove just which tricks he has up his sleeve or, indeed, poison the man (unconscious, perhaps, not dead), he dismisses the taunt easily, though he finds himself wishing Dean would pipe the hell down. One thing to flirt openly. Another to speak so brazenly of their skill sets.

“Do you now?”

“Studied each and every one of your cases _and_ your file front to back and reverse several times over.”

Castiel frowns, confused by the something-but-definitely-not-professional look Dean gives him. Professional spy-assassins, my ass, he thinks. Suddenly uncomfortable, he steps back and throws Dean a bone just to get rid of him. For a moment. To catch his breath.

“A Cosmopolitan. They shouldn’t be able to screw that up.”

“So you aren’t confused?”

Castiel grumbles, unnerved by how close Dean remains. “Only by the fact that you insist on being in my orbit with your incessant behaviour.”

“What can I say? You looked lonely, all crisp and handsome in a suit and that _tie…_ ”

Perhaps it’s repayment for how he held Dean during the waltz. Perhaps he’s just trying to annoy Castiel for the fun of it. Either way, Dean has the audacity to tug at Castiel’s tie, flipping it over, which just doesn’t sit right. Or it does, because that’s how he usually wears his ties. Askew and flipped. Not buttoned up to his throat in a midnight blue suit that somehow, by the way, matches the colour on Dean’s cuffs and handkerchief. He scowls lightly as he watches Dean walk away.

He truly doesn’t like this city or this venue or these people, but such is the nature of his job. To go where he doesn’t always like to go to gather information, go up against other agents, and sometimes relieve the world of an unfortunate soul, all for the sake of his country. His family, truth be told, but they are one and the same. Being among the one percenters and the scum of the earth alike, he has to ensure he never trips up, so he can live to see another day. Dean seems to live and breathe the life, but then he’s got some experience to gain still.

And yet, right now, it is Dean’s presence making it… _easier_?

Which is wrong. If they weren’t on opposing sides, Castiel would be guiding Dean and, hell, even as rivals, they learn from each other. Reluctantly. He scuffs his shoes on the floor a few times. Pensively he tracks his eyes over Dean, leaning on the counter. He looks at ease, but then he always does. Yet there’s something in those spring green eyes. They _are_ trained to read people. No matter how much Dean talks or cracks jokes or laughs or taunts, there’s something beyond that which Castiel took note of the very second they met.

A sadness. A vulnerability. Which, considering what he knows of how the boy got into this life, is no surprise.

A brightness too. Wherever it springs from, it drives Dean to do what he does.

The fact that said knowledge, irrelevant as it is to any case, any situation he finds himself in, won’t leave him alone, however, _is_ a surprise.

Because they are trained to read people, overtly or between the lines, and use what they find to their advantage. Anything that isn’t relevant should be dismissed.

He can’t seem to dismiss _that_ knowledge. Or the way Dean ducks his head, when he thinks no one sees him and almost tangibly slips elsewhere. How his hands wipe over the counter or fiddle with whatever he can find. A toothpick. A lighter. Something to distract him. Or how he bites his lip, not to draw attention or tease, but in something. _Something_.

Castiel’s usually better with words than this.

Dean’s saunter holds his attention up until the moment he hands the cocktail over to Castiel, making sure their fingers brush. Carefully Castiel schools his features, letting his eyebrows do that innocent thing that used to piss off his siblings every time it allowed him to get away with shit as kids. He sips the Cosmopolitan and hums in soft agreement at the flavour. Dean’s looking at him expectantly, which provokes a curious mixture of annoyance and enchantment. He licks his lips and hums to himself in warning.

He’s spent too much time on this already.

“Don’t you have a job to do, Dean?”

“You’re welcome, Cas.”

Dean looks genuinely pleased and not nearly as put off as Castiel had hoped. As he should be. They shouldn’t really be dancing or sharing drinks or talking. Castiel sure as hell shouldn’t be contemplating this _something_ he sees in Dean. They’re rival agents. His genuine people skills, i.e. like normal people possess, which he has little of in his life, are rusty, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind his snark or curt replies. Oddly, he’s made the man laugh on several occasions, entirely by accident, and it’s hard to deny the flutter that released in his chest. So yes, he’s putting his excellent poker face to good use and hoping it actually fools a man like Dean, who in so many ways is similar to him. Who, oddly and isn’t that an unsettling concept, might be the only person at this ball who has any chance of understanding him.

A sense of relief hits when an internal alarm goes off. All of a sudden his window of opportunity opens up, giving him the out he needs.

His brain kicks into gear, going over the next steps effortlessly, including three fallback plans. Right alongside that - multitasking - he’s instantly curious which approach Dean is going with this time. If Dean has studied each of his cases and tactics, the same goes for Castiel, so he has a few ideas of how Dean will try to extract the intel and himself from the situation. So far, he hasn’t hit any of the marks necessary for those. Also irrelevant, he tells himself, as he downs the last of his cocktail. Standing taller, he steps closer to Dean, relishing one last time how that lights up those eyes, how Dean tilts into him like he’s a center of gravity, and puts his empty glass in Dean’s free hand. 

But suddenly he’s stuck in Dean’s orbit...

“As charming as your attempts at… at…,” he falters in confusion when Dean grins wider and his eyebrows go up in obvious curiosity as to how Castiel’s going to finish that sentence. So he doesn’t. He almost growls out the next word. “ _Something_ have been, I’ll let you get back to work. I need some fresh air.”

"That's twice now. Bold of you to assume I haven’t already got what we came for.” He licks the rim of Castiel's glass, before placing it on the platter of one of the waiters as they pass by.

_We._

The whole remark halts Castiel in his tracks and he glances sideways, sensitive to the easy confidence of Dean. He narrows his eyes. “Then _why_ are you still here?”

Dean laughs. It’s a sweet sound, somehow both cute and self-assured, when he scratches at his scruff and looks at Castiel, eyebrows scrunched up. His thumb catches on his lip. That one _is_ on purpose. “You don’t do this a lot, do you, Cas?”

Oh, he does this plenty. He just doesn’t do it on the job. And, as far as he knows the man, neither does Dean, unless it’s part of his cover. Though he’s got quite the reputation in his personal life.

Also, hmm, that nickname. No one calls him that.

He doesn’t really believe Dean when he says he already has his intel, but can no longer afford to indulge this distraction. Sorry, nuisance. So he walks away without another word, surprised at the way Dean’s face ripples with... 

No.

Keep moving, Novak.

He channels his ability to blend in, slipping away into the crowd, heading for the deck. After that, it’s a small climb and he should finally be back on track.


	2. You And I Know For The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean chuckles, a sleazy, tempting little sound, but his face is soft. Open. “Can we stop pretending we don’t know exactly why we’re both still here, Cas?”

On track, which apparently means stopping by the ballroom one more time _after_. He’s not usually one for crowds, but tonight his empty loft doesn’t feel particularly inviting. Midnight is upon them. Christmas cheer.

He locates Dean with ease and, of course, is spotted in turn the same second.

Dean beams a smile at him, gesturing at the bartender. “Back so soon?”

He accepts the drink Dean offers without so much as missing a beat and searches the man’s face for what he thinks he saw earlier. His heart is pounding with the adrenaline of successfully getting the intel and evading every security measure in place, both technological and human. He wants to steer the energy _somewhere_.

He catches Dean’s gaze, tilting his head. “Certain challenges require me to work fast. Others, I can take my time with.”

“Of course,” Dean nods. “And which type am I?”

He has to start believing Dean already got what he needs and is angling for something else entirely. The question therefore remains why Castiel isn’t walking out of here this very instant? Why is he looking at those lips wrapped around the rim of that whiskey glass, mesmerized when a pink tongue flicks out to lick the moisture off? He has to return to HQ and then onwards to the quiet of home.

The crowd is closing in on them, when a huge ornament is lowered. A wintery disco ball to draw the people together, most notably Dean closer to him. The music’s louder and the air warmer, but he’s ignoring all of that in favour of getting lost in the aesthetic and gravitational presence of Dean. He _should_ go, but he isn’t moving. Neither is Dean.

“Why are you still here, Dean?”

Dean chuckles, a sleazy, tempting little sound, but his face is soft. Open. “Can we stop pretending we don’t know exactly why we’re _both_ still here, Cas?”

“You should show me some respect,” he drawls, bristling at the complete lack of decorum and continued out of place familiarity. Dean is pushing specific buttons and Castiel has trouble keeping the urge to give into that part of him out of his timbre.

“Oh, but I do,” Dean says, teeth bared around the next words. His eyes flash, wild and intense, but bright. So bright. “I respect you more than any other agent, living or dead. Any idea why, _Cas_?”

Okay, so the boy pegged Castiel’s sensitive to that. Dean’s pupils dilate at whatever Castiel’s face is doing and he’s dimly aware he’s using his bulk to his advantage, as he crowds Dean. “No, but I’m sure you’re itching to tell me.”

A spark of victory lights up Dean’s glorious eyes, almost golden, christmas lights dancing in them. “More than that,” he whispers. “Lemme show you.”

Lightning fast his hand snatches out, gripping the back of Castiel’s neck, and he kisses him.

He doesn’t even hesitate to respond. His ears hum with the density of people around them, blood rushing hot and fast. Arms wrap around Dean’s waist to pull him in, his drink sloshing over his hand. The little yelp that releases is of the variety he loves to coax out of his partners and instantly he wants more. Dean groans into his mouth without shame or restraint, and for a second, he almost forgets just who they are to each other. He nips at Dean’s lip until he lets him in, one hand searching out soft spots, cursing the stiff dress code, when he gains zero access to warm skin.

Dean laughs against his lips, stealing kiss after kiss, nudging Castiel until he lets up. They stare at each other, Dean playing with his tie, again. Dean's voice lands on the husky side when he speaks. “Are you taking me to your room tonight or shall we continue to play chicken until the next mission rolls around?”

For all his sass, Dean’s breathing comes heavy and there’s a tremble to his muscles under Castiel’s palms. He’s also very warm. And pliantly willing. Castiel doesn’t need much to read that between every line of his body.

“How dare you,” he snarls.

His voice is even. Dropped deeper, sure, but even. His face is probably still in check. Everything else about Castiel is on fire. He cards his fingers through the short soft hair at the back of Dean’s head and fists it just tight enough to draw out a delightfully wanton sound. It’s a confirmation and they both know it. Castiel smirks.

“Let me show you some of my tricks, Dean.”

Dean gives him a sweet laugh, equal parts eager surrender and continued challenge. “Thought you’d never give.”

Castiel flashes him a toothy smile. “I intend to give plenty.”

Dean drapes his arm across his shoulders, letting his weight settle there. “Hmm, Merry Christmas to me.”

*

Dean laughs with abandon, the sound interrupted by, well, Castiel driving into him with steady thrusts. The man is glorious underneath him. Strong-willed. Eager. Quick on the uptake. Willing to give and take. And, oh so mouthy.

He usually doesn’t go for mouthy. At all. This one though…

This one, still in his perfect white shirt, bunched up and pulled taut around his arms, tattooed chest bare, his arms flexing with every thrust as he keeps his palms flat to the headboard to prevent himself getting fucked into the next room. Castiel’s tie around his wrists contrasts gorgeously with the freckled skin and golden hair. There are marks on Dean's skin that will not fade any time soon. The sight of them elicits a deeply pleased response from Castiel. Even the hotel rooms are themed and for once, he doesn’t mind the aesthetics that come with that, casting this entire experience in a warm, cosy glow.

No clothes left on Castiel though. He is stripped naked, loving the feel of Dean, the warmth of his body, and the chill of the air on his skin whenever he moves too vigorously or Dean whimpers to his chest on an exhale, trying to kiss more of him.

This one, Castiel’s mind hisses and boils, as he loses the words, but never the plot. He dives forward to kiss Dean again, his name breathed into him like the elixir of life. Flowery thought, but his mind believes it as his body responds, a soothing feeling erupting under his sternum. It fills him to the brim, tying him to this moment, this man in ways he shouldn’t be.

The professional part of him is convinced it will pass once they’re done. Once they’ve gotten rid of this tension they built up and everything can go back to normal.

But Dean… Dean kisses like an angel, runs his mouth like a devil that would fit in with the Novak ranks, and breathes life into Castiel’s heart. And _they_ would destroy everything good about him, if they knew this. He shies away from the obsessive agent part of himself and lets the expanding feeling under his sternum wash over him. Swallow him whole. Lift him from this world to another, Dean right there with him.

He’s silently cursing the stars down from the heavens, going under, too deep, far too deep into this, past the sadness to the softness, the heat, the brightness of this man, he may as well offer himself up and call it a day. A night. A lifetime.

“Dean,” he breathes him in for the lost-count time.

A sweet sound, between a laugh and a sob, is his answer. Wrenched out, as Dean clutches on, limbs wrapped around him, begging for more. Familiar sounds already and the reason Castiel discovers he still has hope. He thought he’d lost that and he almost wants to be angry with Dean for returning that to him. Having the audacity to do so, but the next breath Dean lets out, he finds he can’t. Won’t ever be able to.

“Cas,” Dean drawls on a long, shaky moan. “Draw it out, draw it out… puh… please, ahn, auh, auh, don’t wanna let you go… nev… not yet, not… pleasepleaspl…”

He cuts off the words, because he might fall apart himself and reveal his ocean-deep hope in the same heartbeat with the need that is vibrating off Dean. That something beyond the world they partake in. Vague understanding. Profound bond. Hubris.

Four letters… Just four…

“Hush,” he whispers to himself and to Dean. “I’m not leaving…”

He wraps himself around Dean, who mirrors him, and, instead of getting lost in this, Castiel is - somehow - found.


	3. Like They Wrote It For Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “... two decent? You better be, cause I’m walking in anyway!”
> 
> A fiery redhead stomps inside, beelining for the bed. Castiel would have gone for his gun, except he’s completely weighed down by Dean, sprawled over as good as every inch of him, and they’re tangled up in the sheets. Charlie squeezes down on the end of the bed, knuckles turning white.
> 
> “Can you go one mission without turning it into a PR nightmare? Just one,” she hisses. “I warned them about this.”

The voice that breaks through his surprisingly deep slumber is familiar only because he’s heard it often on recordings and live PR statements.

Charlie Bradbury.

Dean’s handler.

“... two decent? You better be, cause I’m walking in anyway!”

A fiery redhead stomps inside, beelining for the bed. Castiel would have gone for his gun, except he’s completely weighed down by Dean, sprawled over as good as every inch of him, and they’re tangled up in the sheets. Charlie squeezes down on the end of the bed, knuckles turning white.

“Can you go one mission without turning it into a PR nightmare? Just one,” she hisses. “I warned them about this.”

Dean lifts his head, expression cutely groggy until they focus on Castiel and his face splits in the dopiest smile, before he frowns and glances over his shoulder. “Hey, Charles,” he hums drowsily. “Coffee?”

Grumpy, Castiel thinks. Coffee, good.

She doesn’t give either of them a chance to reply beyond that as she messes with the coffee machine. “Ya think?! Make that two. Or three. This guy drinks his black, right? I shouldn’t be drinking this stuff!”

 _This guy_ indeed drinks his black.

“He does. You’re right,” Dean slurs, rubbing his face to Castiel’s chest. “You shouldn’t. Preggers and all. How’s baby?”

“Wondering if her uncle-to-be is really this special. And you,” she snarls, pointing at Castiel. “I know you’re not _mine_ , though you might as well be for the stupidity that’s going around, but consider this your chewing out as well. I thought you were immune to this. Love the tattoo, by the way. In person, I mean.”

Immune? To Dean? Is anyone?

Castiel’s mouth moves like a fish’s, releasing those little wet sounds, and Dean chuckles softly, planting a kiss over his heart, which, boy, don’t. “You should see it up close.”

“No, thanks,” she grimaces.

For a few odd heartbeats, she falls quiet and sips her coffee, setting two other, steaming cups on the counter. She sighs, though her face barely relaxes, and they sit in an awkward silence for a good bit, while Castiel tries to reboot the brain part that handles spoken language.

“Does she know she’s kinda cute when she’s angry?” Castiel eventually whispers.

For the first time since Charlie barged in, Dean genuinely stirs, making wide-eyed contact. “Dude, do you want to get shot? Don’t let her hear you.”

“She… she’s in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pyjamas,” he gestures helplessly.

Because she is. Neon green and yellow pyjamas with tiny heads of the turtles and their weaponry scattered all over.

“I’m surprised you recognize it,” Dean says.

He glares, trying to catch up to the moment and what his next step should be, but it’s proving a bit difficult with the cute fury of Charlie and Dean’s entire presence to deal with.

“You’re cute when you give me that stink eye,” Dean grins, stretching against him.

“Where is it?” Charlie huffs, casually leaning against the commode. Her gaze catches on the polaroids and she softens, nudging them around. "Oh, good God, you two look stinkin' perfect."

Dean waves a lazy hand to the chair. “Check his pockets. He’s got it. Blue vest.”

Her eyes flick from the two of them to said vest, which _indeed_ holds the intel in one of the secret compartments. “You sure?”

“It’s the only item of clothing he didn’t let me rip off him in the heat of the moment and made sure to hang up nicely,” Dean mumbles, channeling way too much feline for this subject of conversation, “So yeah.”

Castiel falls quiet, a hand coming up to Dean’s back, fingers digging into the muscle. Dean lets out a soft yelp and looks at him. “What?”

He doesn’t say a word. Finds he doesn’t really need to with this man, because Dean gives him a smug wink.

“Yeah, sorry, man, but not really. Not sure what got into you but you were a bit of an open book last night.”

Charlie scoffs, as she sets down the cup and moves towards the vest.

Finally his training kicks in. He surges up on one elbow, nudging Dean aside a bit, some denser, less on-the-ball part of him laments the chill that brings, and aims his gun squarely at Charlie.

Hers is out in a split second too and her dark eyes flash at him in warning. 

“Please don’t make me shoot the man Dean has been crushing on since he laid eyes on you in one of those do-don’t videos on our first day of training. While he’s draped over you on the morning after a much gambled on first night, no less. I know you both suck at talking, but this would be an excessively poor tactic to avoid doing so.”

Castiel glances at Dean for an explanation re: that little, _massive_ kernel of information, only to receive a soft smile. Those cheeks tinge prettily pink, which he’s quickly learning he’s very sensitive to. Dean gives a one shouldered shrug in silent admission, once more vulnerable. Guarded, but vulnerable.

He also doesn’t move away from Castiel, ready to intervene should he decide to take a shot at the pregnant lady.

Which, no. If she were a true adversary, maybe, but she isn’t.

“I take it I was on the do list?” he says, voice low and tight enough to pull a jolted response from Dean, though for the life of him, he can’t _read_ it.

Charlie lets out a giggle at that, but Dean doesn’t budge. “I knew I’d like you,” she says.

A deep sense of fatigue washes over him. His muscles tremble. Dean’s eyes are on him, skin tingling once more. With a sigh, he slumps back, letting his arm fall to the sheets, gun dangling just over the edge, safety back on.

It stays silent for a bit too long, until Charlie shuffles over to the vest, almost tripping on her too long pyjama pants. “You’re not gonna stop us?”

“If you can make me disappear, then sure, go ahead.”

Where did that come from?

Dean’s hand makes contact with his hip and his weight is back. Castiel almost hisses at the intensity of the touch. 

“Cas, what the hell, man? I was kidding. I got my own copy.” He gestures Charlie towards his shoes.

“I wasn't.”

“Congratulations,” Charlie smirks, as she plucks the tiny card out of Dean’s shoe. “I think you’ve ruined the competition for everyone else.”

“Maybe because the competition is tired,” he says, sneaking a searching look at Dean.

A sentiment akin to panic ripples across Dean’s face, but, despite that, he leans closer, openly studying Castiel. His thumb is rubbing gentle circles, while he does so, though it’s unclear who he’s trying to soothe. On instinct, the arm that’s still under Dean somewhat comes up and his hand finds ginger purchase between Dean’s shoulders.

Castiel lets it all happen, frowning in turn as if they’re two different species meeting for the first time. No clear indication how long they do this, until Charlie clears her throat delicately. “Sleepy tired, fucked out tired or existentially tired?”

“As it is, option a, b _and_ c,” he says.

There are alarms going off in his head. Red flags, blue flags, yellow flags. About every colour in the rainbow is passing the revue to get him to stop talking, but to no avail. Dean scoots closer, his freckled hand covering his tattoo in a much more intimate gesture than anything else they’ve done.

“Seriously, Cas?”

He twitches. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“You can leave. With the intel. I'm sure we can run into each other again once we decode it...”

He _should_. Return to his family. Get back to the world outside this room, where everything will fall back into a terrifying, familiar place. Every second the silence lasts longer, the window to do exactly that grows smaller and smaller, until there’s no way out.

Except one.

Dean jolts them out of the moment, almost violently, when he takes the gun and it thumps to the carpeted floor. They move in stilted unison, suddenly all elbows and knees, and he pulls Dean to him. The next second he buries his face in Dean’s neck, breathing him in and resisting the urge to nip. Dean’s voice comes out strangled.

“Charles, take the intel and go. Prepare for code honeybee.”

Something akin to ‘squee’ comes out of her mouth. “Oh! Really?”

“Yeah, hop to it.”

“Sure thing, Dean.” The smile she gives both of them is the brightest he’s seen on her ever, and that’s saying something, because the woman is joy incarnate, when she’s not trying to shoot him. “You’ll be mine in no time, angel.”

He wants to protest the nickname, but before the door clicks shut behind her, Dean kisses him. Sure. Yes.

“Honeybee?” he eventually manages to ask.

“Extraction of a rival agent,” Dean says. “If he so chooses.”

Castiel lets his instincts guide him, when he cups Dean’s face. Those spring green eyes widen, but he holds still - curious, expectant and very much hoping, if the way he seems to be drowning in Castiel’s eyes is anything to go by.

He puts Dean on his back before he covers him with kisses, putting the depth of his answer in each one.

**Author's Note:**

> A smol life update for those who have kept in touch through comments or elsewhere, because 2020 wasn't done with me: diagnosis begot, meds started and job fully lost so I'm going into 2021 with a job coach and the intention of figuring out a new path. Likely another degree/course down the therapy/coach path, alongside writing. My intent is to create a community. It makes sense in my head. I can see it, though - ironically - I suck at explaining it with words.
> 
> Either way, onwards and upwards.  
> Hope you are all safe, sound (but a little weird), and in good company.  
> Much love,  
> Mal
> 
> ** ALSO!
> 
> This is a fifth in a series, which I haven't officially made into a series (because clutter tags). You can find all of them, if you follow the 'snowglobe story' tag. Links below if you feel like exploring <3
> 
> [Heavenly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247922): friends with benefits dumb, but sweet boys.  
> [Thiples](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755060): festival setting with martial arts Cas and dancer Dean. Subtle genderfluid.  
> [Dance Real Close](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28014339): spies AU, winter ball, blatant flirting and first kiss/time.  
> [You're My Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061300): roommates/friends to lovers, genderfluid Cas, first kiss.


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